


Wrath vs. Patience

by greenmtwoman



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26720323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenmtwoman/pseuds/greenmtwoman
Summary: Brienne never did learn to sew.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 8
Kudos: 60
Collections: Jaime x Brienne Week 2020





	Wrath vs. Patience

**Author's Note:**

> Brienne and Jaime have escaped from the Brotherhood without Banners, but the real point is that they're on the road together again.

They sparred every morning and evening, but it was the apple tree that ripped her shirt. “Apples!” Brienne reined up next to the abandoned orchard. 

“Full of worms,” Jaime observed, looking at the twisted trees, 

“I don’t care. Apples! I’ll eat them worms and all.” 

“Is that what they do on Tarth?” 

“You have no idea what we do on Tarth, so be quiet.” She swung out of the saddle. There was a farmhouse in the distance. “Maybe we should ask permission…” 

“We haven’t seen anyone for three days. The roof is caved in, the fields and these trees are untended. The people are gone." 

“Or dead.” This was what they saw everywhere. She sighed. 

“Or dead. Lions…” his mouth twisted, “…wolves, fish, they’ve all passed this way. Whatever happened, I don’t think they’ll miss a few apples.” 

“I suppose you’re right.” After weeks of hardtack and dried mutton, varied with the occasional snared rabbit or wild onion, the idea of fruit was irresistible. They hobbled the horses. “I’ll climb. You pick from the bottom branches.” She saw the flash of bitterness in his eyes, just as she did every time they raised their swords, every time he was forced to yield. 

“I know my tree-climbing skills aren’t what they were.” 

She preferred not to indulge his excursions into self-pity. “If we get a good sackful, they’ll last a while, even if they wither.” The branches creaked under her weight, but held, and apples dropped thumping to the grass. 

One hit Jaime on the head. “Ow!” he said reproachfully, as she laughed. 

Her shirt gave way as she stretched toward a fruit just out of reach. The shoulder seam split and the neck snagged on a dead branch, ripping the front. It was Jaime’s turn to laugh, but Brienne bit back several very bad words and breathed hard through her nose. This was the only shirt she had left. All the others had been lost when they escaped from the Brotherhood. It was pungent though she washed it, and herself, when she could. Still, it was all she had. 

“Rags match the setting, wench,” said Jaime as she slid from the tree. “Of course you could always go shirtless.” 

“This isn’t funny, and my name is Brienne.” 

“I think it’s funny.” 

“Gather up the apples.” She pulled off the ruins of the shirt, shivering as the cold air struck through her thin undertunic. Oddly enough, when so much had been lost, a needle and thread remained in her pack. She’d never used them; they held no pleasant associations. _‘Hands like a blacksmith,’ my septa said._ It took her some time even to get the needle threaded. She glared wrathfully at the rips and made a clumsy knot. She stabbed the needle through the fabric furiously in one direction and then in the other, and then straight into her thumb. A spot of blood fell on the fabric and she stuck the thumb in her mouth. Needle in, needle out. The seam bunched and the thread snapped. 

Jaime put his head on one side. “What are you staring at?” she growled. 

“It’s a choice between you and the apples, and you’re more entertaining, though the apples are sweeter. In some ways." His eyes dropped from her face to her chest, where her cold-hardened nipples were clearly visible through the thin covering. She could feel her face flaming, and she instinctively clutched the shirt to her, managing to stick herself with the needle again. 

“Your septa was right. You really are hopeless at this.” 

“I could manage if you weren’t here!” 

“Excuse me for existing, then.” 

“Stop watching me.” 

“But I’m enjoying myself. I’m waiting to see how long it takes you to turn as red as this apple.” He held it up and took a bite. 

She refused to respond. _Ignore him, ignore him._ It took forever to rethread the damned needle. She poked the thread through the eye on the sixth try, and then dropped it and the shirt in the dirt. Her shriek of frustration set the horses to stamping and tossing their heads. “Seven bloody hells! Fuck the Stranger!” 

Jaime was laughing. “Listen to my wench curse! I’m liking this better and better!” 

Forgetting any considerations of modesty, she sprang to her feet and tossed the offending garment at him. “What am I going to do with this useless rag? Use it to wipe down my horse?” She turned and stamped off through the trees. She hated looking like a fool in front of Jaime, and why wouldn’t he stop staring at her? _I am not as red as an apple!_ She snatched one from a low branch and threw it as hard as she could, seized another and bit into it savagely. 

When she finally felt calm enough to return without wanting to smack Jaime’s smug face, she found him perched on a flat rock. He had picked up the discarded needle and thread and carefully arranged her shirt on his lap, with the ends tucked under his legs and his gold hand supporting the fabric underneath. She watched, disbelieving, as he dipped the needle through the fabric, took one neat stitch and then another. “What are you doing?” 

“You have such amazing powers of observation. What do you think I’m doing? Someone has to mend your shirt, and it won’t be you. Or do you want to ride on like that?” 

The needle paused as he looked her up and down. She crossed her arms. “But how…” 

“Did I ever tell you – I don’t suppose I did – that we used to switch places, Cersei and I, when we were very young and not even our parents could tell us apart at first glance?” 

“No. You didn’t tell me that.” Her voice was expressionless. She didn’t want to analyze why she found mentions of his sister so distasteful. 

Jaime was no longer looking at her. “It was when we were five, six, seven, perhaps eight… after that we were no longer so identical. She got to play with sword and shield, and I… I learned to sew.” 

“Did you like it?” She stared at him incredulously. 

He shrugged. “It was fine. I was fairly good at it, or we couldn’t have gotten away with the deception. It’s been a useful skill from time to time in the field.” 

“But with your left hand?” 

The line of stitches grew, securely reattaching her sleeve. “It only takes patience, and a cripple needs patience. I can do more than I expected with my left hand, everything from writing my name to wiping my ass. What I can’t do is fight.” 

“You’re maimed, not crippled. You're improving.” 

“Says the giantess who knocks me down morning and evening.” 

“You get up every time and try again. I'd say that’s patience.” She watched his fingers as he completed the seam. The five remaining to him were longer than hers. _Defter and more graceful as well._

He neatly bit off the thread. “I expect I could contrive a way to thread this again, but if you would…?” 

To her surprise, she managed on the first try this time, made a knot and handed it back to him. He resettled himself and began on the rip in the front. This went more quickly; they sat in awkward silence until he finished and held the shirt out to her. She snatched it and he flexed and stretched his hand with a grimace. 

“Does your hand hurt? I suppose I should thank you.” She yanked it over her head. 

“Don’t rip it again. Why are you angry?” He seemed honestly perplexed. 

“I apologize for my display of temper, Ser.” 

“We’re back to 'Ser' now, wench?” 

“My name is…” 

“Still Brienne, and mine is still Jaime. Don’t apologize; seeing you in a temper is one of the pleasures of your company. You hate needing help, don’t you… Brienne?” 

“So do you. You hate it. That’s why you try so hard. I find out that you can sew a shirt with one hand, when I can’t do it with two, and that makes me angry. You shouldn’t be patient! It’s supposed to be the other way around.” 

“Supposed to be? Are we supposed to be here, filthy, on the run, one-handed,” he waggled his stump at her, “looking for girls who may be dead, or in Qarth, or the gods only know where? I suggest you worry less about anger and patience and asking for help and more about what's in front of you.” 

“Such as?” 

“Apples.” 

“Apples?” 

“’Stay me with flagons and comfort me with apples…’ One of the few interesting bits of the Seven-Pointed Star. You have a shirt, we have apples, it’s not raining and we’re together. That’s good enough for me. For now.”

**Author's Note:**

> The quote at the end is actually from the Bible; the Song of Solomon 2:5. I borrowed it for The Seven-Pointed Star, because surely there must be some interesting parts in that book! Full quote, for those who don't recognize it: "Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love."


End file.
